Northern Lights
by Gentle Kiss
Summary: "You'll lead me to my grave, and with a final kiss I'll go silently." OC/Tate, PTV inspired


**[AN] **Due to feeling so sorry for Tate after watching the end of season one, I've decided to give him a second chance at love by writing a fanfic about it like most dorks do. And, since I love Pierce the Veil and they are awesome, each chapter is named after a song by that magnificent band. Chapter titles probably won't have much to do with the plot because I put my iPod on shuffle and choose the first song that shows up, so if the title and plot are the same, it'll just be a coincidence. For this chapter, it's "the First Punch." And so the coincidences begin...

Thank you for choosing to read this story. I hope you don't end up hating me for writing it. .-.

though I doubt anyone's going to pay attention to this little fic

**[Warning] **Self harm, slight gore, substance abuse, and naughtiness.

**[Disclaimer] **Fuck disclaimers.

* * *

**Chapter 1: The First Punch**

_One Year Ago..._

Gun shot. Blood. Death. And he didn't even get her name.

Suicide. It's not an uncommon occurrence in this house, but no one has ever wandered through the front door just to kill themselves. No one before this nameless girl, that is. Tate watched her die. He was the last person she exchanged words with.

"I wasn't strong enough," she had whispered. Her voice didn't break, and it was clear and concise. There was no hesitation or doubt in the hand that held the gun. She had made up her mind, and even if he tried, Tate wouldn't have been able to stop her.

"What do you mean?" he had asked. It didn't matter to him if she died. Just another corpse in this already crowded hole. He simple asked because it'd been a while since he last had human contact. He couldn't remember the last time he even spoke to anyone. Maybe when she pulled the trigger he'd have someone to share empty words with again. Surely she didn't know the fate of those who died in this house.

"I have to let go," she had said a bit louder. Then, she closed her chocolate brown eyes, smiled faintly, and said to someone far away, "I love you."

And she pulled the trigger. Tate never saw her again, but he felt her everywhere he went in the house.

* * *

_Present Day_

The Murder House is empty yet unbearably crowded. It is of significant size, with open rooms and many windows, and as of now, as it has been for seven years, vacant, but it's suffocating for Tate to be in, which he always is. Maybe there's something about being dead that makes it so hard to breathe. Or perhaps it's all the restless souls that are smothering him.

It's empty but crowded inside Tate, too, and Violet's the one who seems to be taking up most of the space within him, if not all of it, yet he still feels so profoundly empty.

He had a coffin built for two, and without her in it with him, it was lonely. Tate had never been claustrophobic, but whenever he climbed inside and closed the lid, tried to shut himself off from everyone and everything, he'd panic and escape. It'd probably help if he had someone to nail it, but the only person he'd ever want to do that is Violet, and though she said 'Goodbye,' he never quite felt like she finished the job. No, she never left entirely, but has left sharp little pieces of herself in Tate, pieces dug in too deep for him to pull out, and that's why he doesn't want to nail the coffin shut. Because if he does, he'll be trapped inside of himself, together with broken fragments of the girl he loves.

"Oh, come now, Tate," his mother Constance croons, leaning over the dining table a little with her typical fake smile plastered on her face. Tate immediately shifts back in his seat to further the distance between them with an expression of passive disgust. She doesn't seem to notice. "It's your dear mother's birthday, so why don't you just smile for her?" Tate doesn't even know how old his mother should be, nor does he see much of a difference in her appearance between now and fifteen years ago. Same outdated hair, same outdated clothes, same outdated lifestyle. Even her face hasn't changed much. She's like the rest of the house's occupants; trapped in the same loop of time. Thank God or whoever that she's not dead like the rest of them too, sentenced to spend an indefinite amount of time haunting this house, never to leave. Tate knows he'd be driven even more insane than he already is by her ever constant presence.

"Why?" he asks blandly, crossing his arms and looking her straight in the eyes. "As far as I'm concerned, your birth isn't something to celebrate."

"If it weren't for my birth, you wouldn't be here,"she replies, looking down at her plate as she scoops up another piece of cake with her fork and delicately pops it into her mouth. Tate hardly ever sees her eat. She usually has a cigarette between her lipstick stained lips or a glass of alcohol in her hand instead. She's only eating now for appearances sake, seeing as how the dining room has some other taken seats.

There's also the adulterous old maid, the bullshit shrink, his mom's clingy ex boytoy, and the mother of his child and ex girlfriend. Violet, of course, upon hearing that Tate would be attending this cheerful little gathering, said she would be busy that day and wouldn't be able to go, but she had helped bake the cake with said old maid. It reads "Happy Birthday!" in red frosting, and had been topped with ten candles, though birthday tradition usually dictates that the number of candles pertains to the number of years the person has lived. Constance never told anyone how old she is, though Tate's pretty sure the old maid knows, so they opted for ten candles instead. It's a good thing, too, because the cake probably would have caught on fire from all the candles it would have had to take.

"Wouldn't that be a shame?" he mutters sarcastically, though he goes unheard as usual. Constance turns away from him to talk about how _his_ son, Michael, is doing, and all the milestones he's reached in the past seven years of his life, though fails to add his recent kill streak.

_'Daddy's little boy,' _Tate thinks, holding no particular feelings for his illegitimate child. He couldn't care less if the kid goes down the same bloody path as his father by setting his grandmother's boyfriend on fire or shooting up a school. Tate's never even met his son. He doesn't come to visit, which is understandable seeing how fucked up this house is, and is blissfully unaware of his father's existence. Tate's mother tells him he doesn't have one.

She loves that kid far more than she loved any of her actual children.

"So, who's watching him?" Vivien, the biological mother, asks. They can't seem to talk about anything other than their precious killer. Vivien rocks the sleeping child that she had with Ben in her arms as she speaks. It was a stillborn, and now haunts this house with the rest of them.

"Oh, I hired a very trusted babysitter," Constance reassures. "She used to watch my other children, so there's no need to worry."

What a fucking liar. Michael can't even be left alone with someone other than his grandmother without butchering them. He's home schooled to isolate him from other children who would make easier prey and when his grandmother leaves, she locks him up in a closet like she's done with all her children and all her problems.

"That's good." Vivien smiles and the continue with their idle chatter. Without saying another word, Tate pushes his chair back, making an unpleasant screech on the wooden floor, and quickly retreats from the room. He sees the mother of his child glancing at him sadly from the corner of his eye and her ex husband Ben putting a hand on her shoulder. Whether it's to comfort or hold her back, Tate doesn't know, nor does he dwell on he thought for too long.

* * *

_Violet._

Not a second goes by that she doesn't haunt Tate like the ghost she is. He tries to suppress thoughts of her by listening to loud, heavy music about drugs or killing, or by actually doing drugs, but he hasn't killed anyone in seven years, though he's had plenty of chances.

"See, Violet?" he wants to say, but never has the balls to. "I've changed, so just take me back." He'd beg her on his knees if she gave him the opportunity, but whenever she senses him near, she dissipates into the air. The worst part is that Tate can still feel her everywhere. He feels Violet and the nameless girl whose brains painted the walls of the room in which she killed herself in.

Sometimes Tate takes a blade to his skin and bleeds love all over the floor. It's the little things that make for the best distractions and help him forget, even if only for a little while.

He cuts so deep he'd die from the blood loss if he were alive, yet ironically the act makes him feel like he's almost living again. He wishes he could die for good, somewhere else, and then fade into the nothingness of nonexistence that come as gifts from death. He digs his nails into the wounds to prevent them from healing and lets them fester, relaxing as much as he can into the pillows. He spends most of his time in the attic now, smoking stolen cigarettes and drinking cheap booze that his mother leaves behind, but it's not enough. It will never be enough.

He dies again.

Mayday Parade starts invading his iPod, so he quickly reaches over and grabs it from the pillow, opting for Chelsea Grin instead, which is less melancholic and more angry.

"Stop."

He takes his head in his blood covered hands and squeezes, curling in on himself. They used to play scrabble and chess up here, and the pieces lay scattered on the dusty floor along with every thing else. They used to hold each other and lose themselves in the tangle of their bodies while listening to punk rock in this room. Why does he do it? Why does he stay up here all the time, knowing that the shadow of her ghost is darker in the attic than it is anywhere else?

Tate promised he's wait forever, but he wasn't prepared for the Hell that awaited him.

* * *

Tate looks out a rain soaked window at the wailing police sirens and flashing lights that illuminate the night as they drive by. They must be on a chase, because ten seconds ago, a grey Mercedes sped by going about one hundred on a residential road.

It's quiet for a little while after that other than the methodical tapping of rain on glass. It's soothing, but that's not what keeps Tate transfixed. There's something else holding him here that he doesn't understand and can't define.

The seconds tick by at a deafening volume.

Without warning, an unfamiliar and frantic soul crosses the threshold, which every ghost in the house can feel. It shatters Tate's world.

The door knob jiggles desperately then stops. Tate, who's only a few feet from the door, watches with terrified anticipation. He has no reason to be afraid. Nothing can hurt him. So why...?

An odd clicking comes from the keyhole, and another final click permeates the silence. The door opens and someone stumbles in, slamming it behind them.

It's not uncommon for a few teenagers to sneak into the house to test their courage or do some drugs, but no one ever comes alone. They know the stories that have occurred within these walls. Who ever this stranger is, they're free range for the malevolent souls that reside here. Tate hopes Violet or Ben or Moira show up to scare them out before someone else gets their hands on them.

The intruder slips on the water brought in by their muddy shoes and collapses onto the floor, then just lays there, breathing heavily and dropping their lock picking tools. It's a girl.

Tate warily steps closer, almost ducking behind a piece of furniture to hide, but remembers that she can't seem him unless he wants her to. He looks down at her, and it startles him when her eyes suddenly snap open, wondering if she seems him, and how that would even be possible. Her eyes slowly close once more and her breathing steadies. He wishes she'd open them again. She has the most striking eyes he's ever seen. They're a bright azure hue, framed by long, dark lashes, and he could have sworn they stared right at him, past his appearance and into his head. He feels like he's been shot.

The girl slowly sits up and looks around, her vibrant eyes now reflecting curiosity. A bolt of lightning pierces the sky and momentarily lights up the house, casting long shadows in the corners and gives the place an even more haunted look. Tate takes the opportunity to get a better look at her.

Her hair is blacker than the shadows yet much more vibrant, with short, choppy layers, and has grown to the middle of her back. As far as Tate can tell, she has pale skin, but it might just be the dim, sudden light making it look that way. She's small and looks like she can break easily, and she's shivering from the cold rain that's soaked through her clothes. She gets up on her feet without an ounce of fear or hesitation and begins to wander throughout the house as though in search of something. Tate follows behind.

She starts opening doors and looking in rooms downstairs, then, unsatisfied, starts going up the staircase to the second floor, nearly slipping on the steps on her way up. Tate's heart nearly broke from his chest when he thought she'd go tumbling down the stairs and probably end up snapping her neck. He doesn't want another dead body to clean up. Using this as an excuse to justify his actions, Tate runs up the stars before she reaches the top and waits around the corner to the hallway for her.

When he decides the sound of her footfall is close enough, he makes himself known, turns toward her and covers her mouth with his hand when she rounds the corner. Her eyes go wide and shock becomes the dominant emotion in them. He nearly forgets what he's supposed to be doing.

"Don't scream," Tate pleads, loosening his hand. Her lips are soft beneath his palm. "Okay?"

The girl nods so he releases her. She opens her mouth and Tate automatically suspects that it's to scream, but instead she speaks.

"What are you doing here?" she whispers. Her voice makes him dizzy.

"I should ask you that question," he mutters, looking slightly angry. She doesn't recoil beneath the sudden change of character.

"Just looking around." Her heart rate is steady, which should be a sign of honesty, but Tate gets the feeling she's lying. She has some ulterior motive. They all do.

"You're lying," he accuses, narrowing his eyes.

"No." The girl shakes her head and steps away from Tate to look around. Her eyes are everywhere, always searching, always looking for something. Or someone. "Just being sarcastic."

Tate suddenly feels the presence of another soul before the girl does, and pushes her behind him so that she's between his body and the wall.

"What the hell?" she says a bit louder than earlier, about ready to shove him away, but stops when a young, smiling woman appears seemingly out of thin air before them.

"Come on, Tate," Hayden sweetly murmurs, tilting her head to the right in a display of childlike innocence. "Don't keep her all for yourself."

"Fuck off, Hayden," Tate spits, unamused. She pouts and steps closer.

"Back the fuck up," the girl says, pushing Tate aside. She has balls, he'll give her that, albeit reckless. "If you want me to leave, you don't have to try to scare me away."

This seems to amuse Hayden, who laughs charmingly and steps closer. The girl holds her ground, staring the viper in the eyes. "Oh, we don't want you to leave," she reassures, then looks over at Tate with approval, pointing at the girl with her thumb and saying, "I like this one. She's feisty."

"Hayden, don't even think about-"

"What?" Her expression becomes more deadly. "You got a thing for her or something?"

"It's not li-"

"Seriously?" She rolls her eyes and laughs sardonically. "She's just going to end up breaking your pathetic little heart just like Violet did."

The girl stands there silently as their one sided conversation continues.

"Don't talk about-"

"If you want the bitch so bad, why don't you just kill her?" Hayden shouts, leaning forward and stomping her foot like a spoiled kid. "Go on!" She pulls a knife from her back pocket and tosses it at Tate. The blade glistens sinisterly when another lightning bolt stabs the thick clouds. Tate instinctively catches it. "Kill her and she's yours!"

He holds the knife carefully and with thought, staring at nothing else but it. He's conflicted on whether or not he should let his demons take control and end the girl's life with a blade. A swift but eternal end.

It's been a while since his last kill, after all. He wants to do this. He _needs _to do this.

"Don't let her get in your head."

Tate finally looks up and gazes into those azure eyes, so full of fragile yet determined life.

"I don't know who you are, but I know you're stronger than that. You're stronger than her."

"How do you know?" Tate asks, although not with animosity. He just looks broken and alone. "I've lost the only thing that's ever made me feel alive." He pauses and chuckles, shakes his head, then says a bit softer, "Even when I actually was." He slowly runs his thumb along the knife's edge and slices his skin to calm himself.

"Are you really going to buy into her bullshit?" Hayden scoffs, glaring at her. "She's just saying that because she doesn't want to die."

The girl doesn't pay any attention to her, much to Hayden's frustration. She gazes at Tate then steps a foot closer to him. "I don't want to die," she admits, taking another step closer. Tate stiffens. "But that doesn't mean I don't care." She gives him a sideways smile and takes that last step. "You listen to the voices because you're afraid they'll leave and you'll end up alone." Then, her fingers reach towards his and intertwine, sharing the warmth of her hand with him. "But you're not alone anymore. Just stay no," she whispers too low for Hayden to hear, placing her trust in the hands of a murderer. It's her only hope, and she has no desire to die. Not yet, at least.

Tate leans in close, narrowing his eyes, and bares his teeth. She can see her fate in his eyes and swallows hard. "No."

When he disappears from her side, the girl looks around in a desperate search to find him until she sees Tate strike with the lightning, taking the knife to the woman's throat and freeing the blood from her body.

The girl doesn't scream. She holds it back to draw less attention to herself. The only time she even flinches is when he looks behind him and at her, shouting "Run!"

Blood trickles from Hayden's lips, and she wipes the surprise from her face with a devilish smirk before grabbing Tate by the head with both hands and twisting. His neck snaps and he dies again. "Guess I'll have to kill her for you."

Instinct overwhelms the girl and she turns to flee.

"Not so fast." The girl reaches the stairs and grabs the rail for support. Her shoes are still wet and she can end up slipping if she's not careful.

However, instead of slipping, she is pushed. Tate opens his eyes just in time to see her fall.

_'Damn it!' _Tate thinks, and although he knows it's too late, he stumbles toward the stairs, past Hayden, and forces himself to look down at the girl's broken body.

Instead of red, he sees Violet.

She glances up at Tate for one fleeting moment in which he thinks that maybe things are mending. Maybe it takes an accidental death to make her realize that Tate really has changed. He tried to save the girl, after all.

Violet looks away and Tate realizes he's dead wrong.

Then he realizes that the girl is held safely in Violet's arms at the bottom of the staircase.

"Damn," she grumbles, putting her head in her hands. She had bumped it into a wall, making a hole in the plaster, and now has a splitting headache. She then looks up at Tate, fear and shock eminent on her face as she stares at him with scrutiny. "Aren't you supposed to be dead? I saw that cunt snap your fucking neck. And you cut her throat too, so shouldn't she be dead? Fuck, I must've fallen pretty hard." Tate swallows his words and with one last, longing glance at Violet, who avoids eye contact, disappears down the hall.

"Yeah, shit gets pretty weird around here, so if I were you, I'd leave before things get even more messed up," Violet suggests, carefully pulling her onto her feet. The rest of her body seems to be fine, but she's a little banged up. "I'll go call the ambulance in case you have a concussion."

When Violet starts to guide her to the nearest chair to sit, the girl stops.

"I saw that boy die," she says to Violet, narrowing her eyes. "I saw him slice a woman's throat but she didn't even die either. She got right up and snapped his neck and killed him. Then she fucking pushed me down a flight of stairs."

"I'd like to see how the police react when you tell them that story," Violet retorts, lightly tugging her hand to pull her along. "Now come on. Let's gets you some medical help."

The girl pulls her hand from her grip like it scorched her skin. "I'm fine. I've had a concussion before, and this isn't one. And I never said I was going to tell the police."

"Alright." Violet gives in. It's pretty lonely not having someone her age to talk to around here, and it's not like she had anything to lose. "Do you believe in ghosts...?" She pauses, not knowing the girl's name.

She takes a moment to respond then replies with, "Rachel." It's the first name that came to mind. "And no. I'm atheist."

"Sorry to break it to you, but not everything's so black and white." She holds out her hand and Rachel gets the feeling that of she shakes it, it'll be like making a deal with a demon. Not quite with the devil, but still. "I'm Violet. And I'm dead." Against her better judgement, Rachel seals the deal.

"Well that sucks," Rachel says dryly, only the smallest flicker of confusion in her eyes. She probably thinks that Violet is kidding.

"Yeah, it does," Violet agrees, then laughs lightly. "If you really think you're fine, I'll at least give you a change of clothes before you go. Those are soaked."

"Or you can stay the night," Vivien suggests as she enters the room.

"Are you sure she should stay?" Violet asks quietly, fearing for Rachel's life if she were to stay in the house.

"Of course," Vivien says, then motions for Rachel to follow her. "Now let's get you some dry clothes to change into."

* * *

After Rachel has changed into Violet's clothes, which happen to fit her rather well, Vivien brews some coffee in the kitchen as Rachel and Violet sit at the table talking.

"What were you even doing in this house?" Violet inquires. Rachel quickly comes up with a slightly believable excuse.

"I got lost looking for my friend's house when it started raining, so I decided to break into the nearest empty house until the sun came up. I'm a long way from home and I don't have a cellphone. I thought this place was vacant."

Violet and her mother exchange a quick glance before Vivien shrugs and says, "It is. We're not really residents here." Vivien passes Rachel her coffee, which she thanks for and sips gratefully.

Rachel then notices Tate leaning against the doorway of the kitchen with his arms crossed before she hears him. "We're all dead," he says grimly. There's a brief moment of silence before Tate starts walking over to where Rachel sits, debates whether or not he should sit next to her, and ultimately decides to just stand.

Seven years and being in the same room as Violet still hurts him. Rachel notices the tension and decides to speak up.

"Well it makes sense." She shrugs. No living human could survive after having their neck broken. The only logical explanation would be that Tate's dead. "Are you the only ones haunting this place?" she asks anxiously. This question is immeasurably important to her.

"No," Tate replies, much to her relief, and shakes his head. The three undead denizens are all confounded over how someone could handle such information as little ambivalence as Rachel. It's unnatural, but neither of them have the right to testify against anything out of the ordinary when they have their own 'quirks.' "There's a lot more of us. Who ever dies in this house becomes trapped in it forever."

It sounds like a terrible fate, but it's the best news Rachel has received in a very long time.

She smiles in a knowing way and says softly, "Nothing is permanent. I'm sure one day all of you will be free."

"Hopefully not everyone," Tate mutters, looking at the floor. Her smile is too warm for him, like the sun after a life underground. "If you haven't noticed, not all of us are friendly."

"And what side do you fall under, Tate?" Violet asks him directly for the first time in weeks. Her voice stabs his weak spots and reopens invisible wounds.

"Neither," he grumbles, turning to leave.

"Wait," Vivien calls out, and Tate stops, keeping his back to them. "We need someone we trust to watch over Rachel until morning comes."

"I'll do it."

"She said someone we _trust,_" Violet says.  


Tate forces himself to look at her. "You can trust me." He then gazes over at Rachel, who glances at him beneath her lashes. "Do you trust me?"

Rachel nods.

When the pair leave and head for the attic, Tate holds her hand on the stairs in case she slips.

* * *

"You sleep here?" Rachel asks, looking around. There's a mattress pushed into the corner of the room with a wide array of pillows and blankets on it. On on side of the wall is a huge shelf filled with CDs. She maneuvers around the boxes and junk to get to it, like this is his own jungle and she's just a wandering explorer.

"Yeah," he quietly says, looking around for his brother. "If someone jumps out at you, don't be afraid." Tate waits for her response but never gets one. He echoes her silence and simply studies the way she moves.

"A Day to Remember, Bring Me The Horizon, All Time Low, Man Overboard, Of Mice & Men, Mayday Parade, Citizen, Basement." Rachel lists off the band names, but only a few. It's darker in the attic than it had been downstairs, so she looks at the album covers to discern what bands they are. She smiles and holds up her last example. "Pierce the Veil." She puts them back in their disarray and nods in approval. "Your taste in music is impeccable." Then she laughs and kneels down to the bottom shelf. "The Doors? I thought they'd be a little weird for you."

"You don't know me that well," he says, and when she looks at him he tries to smile genuinely. It hurts and feels unnatural, but the pain subsides when she smiles back.

"Then tell me who you are." She walks over to the large mattress and sits down on it, patting the spot next to her. Tate shuffles over uneasily and sits down, but not where she motioned him to. Instead, he chooses to stay a good two feet away from her.

"Well, my name's Tate."

"Tate," she echoes, weighing the name on her tongue. She heard the others call him that. "That's a weird name."

"Is that a bad thing?" he mumbles, looking slightly dejected. Rachel decides that he reminds her of a lost puppy.

"No." She shakes her head. "Weird just means different. I like different."

Tate nods slowly, glancing at the clothes she's wearing; they're Violet's, and they smell just like her.

"Something wrong with what I'm wearing?" she asks, tilting her head to the side while looking down at the red shirt. It's not really her style, but she didn't complain when Violet handed it to her.

"Yeah," Tate admits. It's pathetic. He's confiding in a girl who he's just met because he's sick of being alone. He's pitifully weak and needs someone.

"They're Violet's. Is that why?"

Her intuition is astonishing. He nods slowly, swallowing the knot in his throat to speak. "I love her ," he says out loud. He hasn't said it in a long time, though the fact remains the same. Just because something is ignored doesn't necessarily mean it will go away. "She left me because I'm not a good person," Tate whispers, staring out the window. It's blurred from the rain and difficult to look out. Up here, the rain is louder and creates a symphony on the roof and glass. "I've done things to people that she'll never forgive me for." He inhales, trying to breathe the air that he doesn't need, and puts his head in his hands. "I'll wait forever," he murmurs after calming down a bit. His walls are caving in again. "I'll wait forever for her to forgive me."

"No." Tate looks and his eyes are red and puffy like he's been crying although he hasn't shed a single tear. Rachel narrows her own eyes at him, but doesn't look angry. Just disappointed. "If you want her to forgive you, you can't wait. You have to act." He blinks a few times and says nothing. But he thinks. He thinks about a lot of things. she sighs and falls back, laying half on the mattress and half off. "Your life -or death, rather- is like one Bring Me The Horizon song."

Tate finally laughs and falls with her. They don't say anything for a while and when Tate thinks she about to fall asleep he quietly asks what her name is. "Be honest. I know you lied to Violet. A lot."

'Rachel' remains silent and Tate thinks she really has fallen asleep. He closes his eyes, trying his best to think about nothing in particular, but it doesn't work. His demons have returned with a vengeance.

"Aurora."

Tate opens his eyes and turns his head to look at her so that his cheek is resting on the pillows. She stares at the ceiling and Tate realizes that the girl beside him isn't as calm and composed as he thought she was.

Aurora borealis. A magnificent light show seen much farther north in extreme cold temperatures and surrounded by darkness. Something Tate will never be able to witness up close.

"My name is Aurora."

There's a small ray of colorful, cold light in Tate's home.

"That's a weird name, too."


End file.
